The Fairmont was a six story, brownstone building, with the name on a shiny black plate beside the entrance. A green canopy supported by shiny metal rods extended from the curb to the doorway. O’Neill paid the cab driver and went inside.
There was too much furniture in the small lobby, too many shiny metal ashtrays, too much perfume in the air. The place looked cheap and dirty, and the gilt tables and tricky lamps made it look worse. Like a prostitute with too much make-up on.
The pale young man behind the desk looked bored. He had on a gray pinstripe suit and he managed to create the impression that working in a hotel wasn’t his regular line. He pointedly ignored O’Neill’s bandaged head.
“I want to talk to Billie La Rue,” O’Neill said.
The young man looked at his fingernails.
“Is she expecting you?”
“No. What’s her room number?”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“You’ll be a lot sorrier in a minute,” O’Neill said. He knew he was acting like some screen-writer’s idea of a detective. But he didn’t care. He was getting madder all the time. At himself and at everybody.
“Well,” the room clerk said, looking uncertain, “I—”
“It’s all right,” O’Neill said. He was too tired to keep up the tough act. “I’m from the D.A.’s office.” He took out his wallet and showed his card.
“Of course then it’s all right,” the young man said. He nodded mysteriously and said, “it’s room three thirty. Anything I can do to help, Mr. O’Neill?”
O’Neill was about to tell him what he could do, but he decided against it. “No thanks. Sorry I sounded off. I’ve been seeing too many movies, I guess.”
He took the elevator to the third floor, walked about twenty yards along a carpeted corridor and knocked at the door marked three-thirty.
He heard light footsteps in the room, then a voice asked, “Who is it?”
“State’s Attorney’s office,” he said. “I have to talk to you Miss La Rue.”
“Oh—” There was a pause, then the voice said, “just a minute.”
The footsteps went away from the door, came back quickly. The door opened.
O’Neill knew about what to expect. The name Billy La Rue, the Fairmont hotel and Eddie Shapiro all added up to a certain kind of girl. A girl with too much lipstick and phoney hair, white, shaved legs, and a mental outlook like a cash register. That was what he expected.
But the girl in the doorway was nothing like that. She was small, neatly built, with clear eyes and soft, natural looking hair. She didn’t have any make-up on and she looked worried and scared. She was the kind of fresh, wholesome girl you’d see on a college campus in the Middle West.
O’Neill took off his hat. She was that kind of a girl.
“May I come in?” he said.
“Of course,” she said, and led him to a small living room that managed to look neat and clean, despite the furniture. There were fresh flowers on a table and several nice pictures on the wall that he knew didn’t come with the room.
“Sit down, please,” she said.
O’Neill took a seat and lit a cigarette. The girl sat down facing him in a straight backed chair. She was wearing a blue wool house coat and blue slippers. She looked so clean and young that O’Neill felt embarrassed.
Finally he said, “You know about Shapiro?” He made it more of a statement than a question.
The girl nodded. “I heard it on the radio. But I don’t think it’s true. I don’t think he killed that detective in the hotel. How did you find out I knew him?”
Her directness and poise slightly confused O’Neill.
“Let’s go a little slower,” he said. “When did you see him last?”
“Tonight,” the girl said. “He was here about nine o’clock. He stayed about fifteen minutes, then left.”
“You haven’t heard from him since?”
“No. I just heard the late news saying he was wanted by the police for killing a house detective at the Metropolitan Hotel.”
“What’s the set-up between you and Shapiro?” O’Neill asked. “How did you get mixed up with him?”
The girl looked down at her hands and O’Neill thought she was going to cry. But she didn’t.
“He’s been kind to me,” she said. “I know you think he’s a murderer but I know better. Eddie isn’t really bad. He’s never had a break in his life that he didn’t make for himself. His family threw him into the streets, he never had a chance to go to school, but he still has a better idea of right and wrong than most people. That’s why I know you’re wrong if you think he shot that man tonight.”
“Well,” O’Neill said, “let that ride for a while. How did you happen to meet him?”
“My name isn’t Billie La Rue, it’s Betty Nelson,” the girl said. “I came from a small town in Michigan. I’ve only been in Chicago about three months. I want to dance and the agent who’s helping me suggested I try another name. I met Eddie one night in a restaurant. He’s been wonderful to me always. And he’s never tried to touch me, which is a lot more than I can say for some pious young men I’ve met.”
O’Neill smiled. “Watch the pious ones,” he said. He liked this girl, he wanted to help her, but he had a hunch she’d stick by Shapiro despite anything he might say. But he had to try. “Now look,” he said. “Shapiro is in a bad spot now. He might get out all right, but don’t do anything foolish. If he comes here don’t let him in, don’t even see him.”
The girl smiled faintly. “Do you really think I’d turn him down now that he needs someone?”
“I guess you wouldn’t,” O’Neill said. He got up, put out his cigarette. “Can I use your phone?”
The girl showed him where it was and he called Police Headquarters and asked for Logan. He got him after a short wait.
“This is O’Neill,” he said. “What’s new?”
“I thought you were supposed to be in bed,” Logan said. “The only thing new is we got Shapiro.”
“Where is he now?” O’Neill said. He looked up and saw the girl watching him with anxious eyes. One of her hands moved to her throat, stayed there a moment then fell slowly back to her side.
“He’s right where we found him,” Logan’s voice was saying. “He ain’t going anywhere. He’s dead.” His voice sounded tinny and harsh in O’Neill’s ears.
“Who did it?” he asked.
“Looks like suicide, but we aren’t sure yet. Have to wait for the lab tests.”
“Any line on the girl?”
“No. She’s probably in the river by this time. I figure—”
“Oh, to hell with your deductions,” O’Neill said wearily. “Just give me the facts.”
He listened while Logan told him the story. When he finished O’Neill said, “I’m going back to the girl’s room at the Metropolitan and look around. If anything more breaks give me a ring, will you?”
He hung up and began fumbling for another cigarette. The girl took a step toward him, then stopped. “They got Eddie,” she said, making a flat statement of it.
“Yeah,” O’Neill said. He found the cigarette and lit it. “They found him in a hotel on the South Side. Looks like he shot himself.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Don’t let this throw you.”
The girl was hanging on to her control with a visible effort.
“Would you leave me alone now, please?” she asked.
“Sure,” O’Neill said. He started for the door, but the girl called him back. “One thing,” she said. “Eddie left a package with me tonight. You’ll probably want it so you might as well take it now.”
She went into the bedroom and returned carrying a brown leather briefcase.
“Take it,” she said.
O’Neill put the briefcase under his arm, nodded good bye to her, and left. Down on the street he got a cab and started back for the Metropolitan. On the way he opened the briefcase.